Aschenbauch Redux
by ravenchel
Summary: After years of running from the law, Sirius travels abroad to find solitude. Instead he discovers the meaning of art and passion, and the tender interplay between the two.


**Title:  **Aschenbauch Redux (1/1)

**Author name:** Ravenchel (Rachel)

**Author e-mail:** raebee@arches.uga.edu

**Category:** Angst

**Rating:** R

**Spoilers:** All the books

**Summary:** After years of running from the law, Sirius travels abroad to find solitude.  Instead he discovers the meaning of art and passion, and the tender interplay between the two.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:  Thank you to durendal, who helped even more than she'll ever know. Also, this story is based off a wonderful *real* work of fiction.  Full credit given at the end.**

Aschenbauch Redux

_"…then, it lay before him, that most astounding of landing places…"_

Sirius stepped off the train in Sion and exhaled.  The simple, minimalist platform was open, facing the large cleft of a mountainside.  Sirius was unaccustomed to mountains.  Never in his life had he been so close to one, so able to reach out and brush against the dusty soil that composed it.  He was tempted to believe that the mountains were an illusion, a spell on the earth, manifested directly between Sierre and Martingy in the Rhone plane. Pulling a small leather bag over his shoulder, he ran his hand through his newly acquired sandy brown hair.  After a few close calls while staying with Remus in his small flat the previous year, Dumbledore had suggested that Sirius take a holiday, under the guise of a Polyjuice potion modeled after an unsuspecting Muggle, and wait for any urgent owls.  Sirius had himself chosen the sleepy town of Sion, Switzerland, whose magical government was thankfully a neutral mirror of its Muggle one.  Sirius was as safe in Switzerland as the millions of galleons, sickles and knutts smuggled there during the Second Great War. 

It was July, and thus, the ski tourists were few and far between.  Sirius was one of only three people to depart the train.  He had opted for conventional Muggle travel, instead of relying on his animagus form.  Frankly, Sirius was sick of being a dog, as much as he hated to admit it.  His canine form was something that had always brought him great joy and a sense of power.  He spent many a frenzied evening keeping Remus company when he underwent the werewolf transformation each month.  But, in the past years, after incredibly long stretches of sustained animagus transformation, it felt good to be human again.  Sirius followed the other passengers down the staircase, under the rail platform, and up the subsequent escalator to find himself curbside.  Buses pulled into the waiting area, loaded or released throngs of locals, before the plastic doors swiveled shut and the customary gust of air was released, the brakes let up, and the bus rumbled down the road again.

Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets, fingering the new Muggle money crisp in the fabric folds of his black trousers.  He lifted his right arm and signaled for one of the many taxis.  Once situated in the plus black seat, he shouted through the Plexiglas divide the street and number of his destination.  Le Chateau Montange was quiet and Muggle, and had vacancies for several months.  It was an unassuming little country house on the outskirts of the city proper, which backed up to the mountainside vineyards.  The streets of Sion were a mixture of modernity and antiquity.  Next to a McDonalds was a pub that had its roots in the early 1850s.  The contrast was inadvertently beautiful and unique.  Sirius relaxed as the taxi careened down the Avenue de la Gare and the subsequent streets, past the place de la plaza and the public library, through the circular intersections and down past a newspaper kiosk and Italian bakery.  The streets became narrower, only suitable for a single car at a time, and the taxi had to wait its turn as other vehicles passed.  It finally pulled to a stop besides and alley that was only a few people wide, not at all enough room for a car.  A burly looking women of about fifty was waiting outside, eying the taxi suspiciously.  

Le Chateau Montange had lived up to all of Sirius' expectations.  The sides of the structure were drab and brown, and an ancient wooden overhang, meant for keeping animals cool, shadowed half of the front of the house, which was warm and welcoming.  Sirius scooted towards the nearest door to the cab, hopping out and slamming the door behind him.  As he turned to offer the fare, the taxi sped off down an adjoining street, protested by shrill honks from the other drivers.

"Monsieur, c'est la bonne chance, vous avez un tour libre."

Sirius fingered the slim wand stored in the inside pocket of his jacket, muttering a translation spell.  The French the woman had spoken became proper English.

"Sir, you are in luck.  You have a free ride."

"I wonder why, mademoiselle," Sirius returned to the women behind him, all in proper French.

"Oh, the taxi man does not have the correct papers. I know him, monsieur.  A trouble-maker.  He'd rather lose the fare than risk being reported to the police as he knows I would."

Sirius faced the woman now.  She was the epitome of a fifty year old innkeeper.  He skin sagged lightly around her eyes and mouth, her build was round and pudgy.  Her red hair was gathered into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the apron slung around her broad hips was strained in oranges and browns.

"Monsieur, your room is ready upstairs.  Your breakfast will be served each morning at eight sharp in the parlor.  For the afternoon and evening meal we have a small restaurant up the vineyard a ways.  The cuisine is quiet excellent, as it serves one of the larger hotels in the area.  Of course, we have after diner drinks here in the parlor, if you wish."

"Thank you, Madame," Sirius replied, retracting his earlier, more police statement of mademoiselle.  After closer inspection, he was sure the women did not deserve such a young title.

In the small room he was renting, just off from the staircase, Sirius unpacked the few belongings from his travel bag.  The simple Muggle clothing was stored in the drawers provided, and Sirius' sketchbook and pencils were given the preferential placement on the night table.  Sirius hadn't had the pleasure of art for a long time, since he had been locked away in Azkaban and, then, on the run for the ministry.  While in school, he had been frequently scolded for doodling during classes, and had drawn in the infamous Marauders Map, though it was not the best example of Sirius' handiwork.  He dwelt on realism, and Greek beauty.  Tradition and curves accented his works, and they received much praise.

With his fingertips lightly grazing the fading cover of the old book, he lifted his eyes to curiously study his reflection in the mirror with the eagerness of a one who was not accustomed to his own appearance.  Sirius had only a few hours to adjust to the new exterior before boarding the train for Sion, and now he took the time to trace his fingertips over the ridges across his cheeks and brow, the angular line of his jaw and the brittle strands of his hair.  He looked more like Remus than anything else, but his face was hairless and a bit more refined than his good friend.  Sirius reached to the silver hipflask at his waist, bringing it to his mouth for a small swig of the Polyjuice potion, before sitting down on his bed and massaging his temples as he drifted to sleep.

_"His first glance he found him; the red bow on his breast could not be missed."_

The next afternoon, after a quiet breakfast in the parlor, Sirius began climbing up the steep vineyard pathways adorning the side of the mountain.  They were most frequently used by the farmers and vineyard owners, but the occasional tourist could, if they were determined enough, follow the ancient stone paths up the mountainside in tiers, towards a famous Lac de Montorge, that was almost constantly sheathed in ice, and the small restaurant that served both the inn and the larger, more elegant Hotel of the Manor House.

Sirius found himself wishing he could transform, to save the strain of the climb on his human muscles.  However, the walk was altogether unpleasant, with the sun at his back and the occasional shade of an uncharacteristic tree among the low-lying vines.  Within a half and hour he reached the Savièse road, which, if followed on its mountain path, would intersect with the main street of Sion, next to the Place de la Plaza, the market, and the secondary school.  The walk in that direction was at least an hour, and Sirius decided it was best to put that off until after lunch, or to hail a taxi instead.

At the edge of the pavement, Sirius looked back at the path he had followed.  His vantage point was considerably high, and he could see the sloping roof of the Chateau, the newspaper kiosk, and the small courtyard with the statue of the Virgin Mary.  In the distance, more northeast than directly below him, Sirius could see the twin castles for which the town of Sion was built.  Before he departed, Sirius hoped to go there and draw the skyline.

In his art, Sirius had always held his passions in check.  Passion, Sirius believed, had no proper place in traditional beauty.  He had lived a life of moderation as well, though not entirely by choice.  One was allowed little more than survival in Azkaban, but even before then Sirius had been consumed with moderation in his actions.  One might imagine him as the flamboyant prankster.  He had played that part with the Marauders, but his time in Azkaban had changed that, for both his life and art combined.  He had been forced to lean to subdue his anger, to contain his anguish, and after years of practice it had become as commonplace as breathing.  Likewise, he now sculpted in creamy whites and tans, immersed in reality.  A flowing cityscape would suit his artistic urges, the inner cravings for creation denied all these years.

His left hand curled protectively around the sketch pad he had carried up the hill.  It was almost noon and the lunch crowd would be surging on the small restaurant soon, so Sirius made his way to an outside table.  He ordered a café au lait from the young waitress, and read the newspaper absentmindedly.

A young couple passed by his table, in matching jean shorts and polo shirts.  Their hands were filled with maps and guides to the city, and Sirius couldn't help to think that the two would never be able to appreciate its true nature with their noses buried in books and pamphlets.  He sipped his coffee, and returned his mind to the news.  As he shifted his gaze down, however, a new set of patrons filtered past his eyes.  An elderly woman with a tight silver braid halfway down her back was leading a young boy towards the café.  

The boy was sheer beauty.  He walked impassively, dressed in a loose yellow shirt and khaki trousers.  He was an eagle and a raven and a dove all at once, and Sirius had to blink repeatedly to assure himself of reality.  The boy passed the outside tables, with the matron ahead of him, and took a seat near the window inside.  Sirius returned to his newspaper, his thought brightened by the appearance of the vision.

For the next week, Sirius continued his routine of an early breakfast at the Chateau, a walk to the kiosk for the daily news, a slim cigarette while he was watching the courtyard beside the church, and a climb up the vineyards to the restaurant.  Once seated, he would order tea or coffee, and watch the road.  The boy approached in the same direction each day, his gait and stature a mirror of the day before.  He would walk slightly bent, thin blond hair cascading down his forehead, arm crooked at the elbows with his palms inside the pockets of his trousers.  Many days he would carry a golden apple in one hand, leisurely drawing it up to his mouth and biting into its flesh.  When he finished, he would toss the core in the gutter before entering the restaurant.  When he passed Sirius the boy would be looking straight ahead, and Sirius would be engrossed in the newspaper.  He never needed to turn around to know that the boy would be at the table closest to the window, and after several minutes Sirius would pay his bill and begin his walk down to the city.  

He would spend the early afternoon in the Place de la Plaza, watching the schoolchildren maneuver the steel swing sets and slides of the playground.  Off the side of the plaza was a steep and narrow pathway that led to the castles and in the opposite direction was the large white building that housed the secondary school.  At two the students would filter past Sirius' post beside the playground, chatting and fighting and chewing haphazardly on crusty pastries.  It was at that time that Sirius would stand and begin his walks around the city.  He would some days stop at the public library, and read poetry or drama, and sometimes he would walk to the market and marvel over the wheels of cheese or the section entirely devoted to ornate cowbells.  That was if he went east.  Towards the west he found the small pastry shop that always had fresh buns and éclairs.  Or the financial district, on the street that the Sionne River ran under, and on which a fountain blockaded it from motor traffic.  He had sat on the edge one afternoon, and a passerby had begun to sing a song about the fountain, and Sirius soon discovered that this was a great tradition.

His travels would often take him past the Tour des Sorciers, the Sorcerers' Tower, which had served as the corner to the city walls that once girdled the town.  Long-forgotten, the structure jutted into the skyline and reminded Sirius of the towers of fairytales, of Rapunzel and the Prince and the thickets of eye-piercing thorns.  It shape was almost lumpy, with small thatched caps that formed sharp peaks, and a single window carved into its south face, where the ancient guards had stood watch at the city's boundaries.  Sirius would lean up against the tower and feel the old magic through its stones.  It was said potions masters would concoct vials of liquid that could turn a man blind to the bounds of the city, or bring greatest joy to the small farmers who would often grace its gates.  In the present day, the tower was hollow, and the ground ringing it was clumped with bushy tufts of grasses and lazy geese picking at the remains of sandwiches tossed in the gutters by the passersby's.  A few feet over was the post office, and across the streets was a large commercial grocer that sold local chocolates to tourists for marked-up prices.

Depending on his mood, Sirius would spend the evening either drinking and eating in a small pub, or climbing back to the restaurant on the vineyard and have duck or goose or veil.  At night, the boy would be in the restaurant less frequently, but his matron was always there, leading Sirius to believe that he spent his night in Sion proper, perhaps at the disco or eating French fries at the new McDonalds with the local youths.

On an afternoon in mid July, when Sirius had been in Sion for a number of weeks, he broke his routine by waiting at the café all afternoon, after the boy and the matron had passed inside.  He ate and drank leisurely, and only when the matron and boy had passed by him again, and they headed down the hill to the city did Sirius pay and leave.  He followed them down the path, at a safe distance, as they entered the city.  He heard the matron call back to the boy, voice heavily accented, "Tadzio, come".  Tadzio, Sirius' apollonian statue, perfect and pale and demanding, had a name.  Tadzio. 

The matron was walking a few paces before the boy, and then would signal over her shoulder for him to follow her into the market, or the clothes shops or the bank.  Sirius spent his whole day tailing them, ducking in alleyways and behind columns to assure himself of his anonymity.  He only took his eyes off the boy when it became to dark to see and they climbed into a taxi.  Sirius waited at a bus stop and traveled alone, back to the Chateau.

_"In a transport of delight he thought his gaze was grasping beautiful itself,_

_the__ pure form of divine thought"_

At least once a week afterwards, Sirius would follow Tadzio and his caretaker to the city, and sit on the wooden benches in the plaza and watch him smoke cigarettes outside the market while the matron was busy buying figs or apricots.  Tadzio would draw the thin paper to his lips, inhaling the smoke with his shoulders and chest.  He would recline then, against the brick walls, and gaze impassively at the school children parading by.  One day, Sirius brought out his pencils and papers, and began to sketch Tadzio, all lines and angles and sweetness.  He sketched obsessively for an hour, long after Tadzio had gone off with the matron and he was unable to steal glances at him.  He had long memorized the pale porcelain of the boy's skin, the bones of his cheeks and the grey of his irises. When he finally put his pen away, exhausted, he saw before him the best work of his life.  Tadzio was shining at him, glossy and cold grey from the graphite pencils, small crumbs of lead collected at the juts of shoulders and hips.  Sirius folded the paper in fourths and slipped it into the inside pocked of his thin overcoat.

As July was coming to a close, Tadzio made a change in the daily routine.  Instead of following the matron down to Sion, he left her and cut a jagged path through the forest farther up the mountain.  Sirius hesitated a few moments before following, cautiously.  Tadzio came out at the frozen Lac de Montorge, and Sirius hid himself behind the caretakers shack, breathing heavy and nervous for his intrusion.  The boy seemed to be waiting for something, and even as he stood impatiently, Sirius could help but be overwhelmed with his beauty.

Suddenly, another boy fell from nowhere next to Tadzio.  It was the magic of a Portkey, and Sirius realized the boy he was so enamored with was no Muggle.  Instincts of a convict kicked in, and Sirius slunk back, forgetting that the face he wore now was not recognizable as a wanted criminal.

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry."

"How long can you stay?"

"Only a moment, Draco.  They'll wonder where I am"

"Come back in a few days, I'll send another Portkey."

There was silence and some stifled moans.  Sirius had mistaken his vision's name.  The matron's heavy accent had masked its innate beauty.  Sirius cursed himself.  Draco.  He tried the name again and again in his head, testing the sound and the flow of it.  It suited the child much better than Tadzio.  Draco, a constellation like Sirius.  Draco, the Dragon and Sirius, the Dog Star, together in the cold northern sky.

Draco was walking away now, and Sirius hesitated again before following him back to the city.

One afternoon, Sirius finally decided to climb the cobblestone streets to the twin castles.  Collégiale de Valère, a fortress embracing a number of buildings besides the church itself, was distinctly Gothic and Romanesque and housed the oldest playable pipe organ in existence.  Its twin, the Chapelle de Tous-les-Saints, was much smaller in size, but virtually identical in style.  He had heard of a large bay between the two castles from which you could see the skyline of the entire city, and he wished to sketch it.  Sirius was more adept at human form than landscape, but he knew the city of Sion was something he should capture, for future reference.  He didn't know how much longer he had in the city.  Dumbledore had sent few owls, mostly trivial things.  Remus had sent a few as well, asking how he was doing and if the food was good.  Still, Sirius couldn't be too sure of when he would need to depart.  He had felt eyes on his back certain days, eyes that vanished when he turned his head abruptly.  At the restaurant, in the Plaza, in the coffee shops.  The eyes followed him everywhere, just as he followed Draco.

His legs had become stronger, after the daily climbs up the mountain, and thus the steep trek to the castles was easy.  Once the ground had leveled, Sirius took a deep breath and absorbed his surroundings.  The two castles stood like twin soldiers protecting the city.  Their walls had once surrounded the whole population, but were now crumbling with the weight of expansion.  Small tufts of grass had sprung up before the cracks of stone, and those tufts were in turn covered with the thin dusting of snow and dirt.  Sirius turned the corner to approach the overlook.

Draco was there, perfect in the hazy glow of afternoon sun.  He was bent at the middle, forearms resting on the stone wall, eyes lazily swimming over the city below.  Sirius was not very light on his feet, and his appearance caused Draco to cast a glance over his shoulder.  Draco was appraising Sirius, squinting slightly, with a gaze as serious as Sirius' own.  And then he smiled at Sirius, before turning again, back to the city, and shifted his weight.

Sirius couldn't breath, he could hardly move.  He threw himself to the left, through the small door into the castle, and found himself panting against a wall in the dim light.

"Child, you must not smile at me.  Hear me; no one can smile like that to another person."

Sirius' vision blurred, and he looked up at the ancient pipe organ suspended in the wall above him, and at the rows of pews leading to the alter at the front of the church, and his head was awash with thoughts of insanity and sanity all at once.  He whispered the formula of longing – half-mad, absurd, and holy – "I love you."

Sirius spent long nights in his little rented room, crumpled sheets of paper scattered around his feet.  Over and over again he would draw the boy.  Spend an hour contouring the line of his torso or the tiny indentation of a collar bone.  Took sheets and just drew hands, or eyes, or necks.  Covered his own hand with dark smudges of lead and pressed the grey dust into the drawing's stomach, leaving a murky fingerprint, the ridges of Sirius's skin creating circles around the boy's bellybutton. Would, when he was angry with a picture, burn it with the short candle on his desktop and throw the ashes out the window, to keep them away from his Draco.

At the end of those long nights, Sirius never had a single picture equal to the one he drew in the Plaza.  Even though Draco was perfect and sharp in his mind, nothing could compare to that moment.  And Sirius would go smoke a cigarette on the balcony and close his eyes to see that Draco again and again.

Sirius followed the boy the second time he came to the lake in early August.  As he left the restaurant after the boy, he saw the matron turn, halfway down the road, and watch him.  Draco had already vanished through the trees, and it was just the matron and Sirius on the path.  She watched him, a look of disgust and hatred in here eyes, cold and unforgiving, before turning on her heel and continuing her walk.  Sirius turned as well, quick to follow Draco before he lost the boy.

Behind the shed again, he listened to their conversation.  He contemplated transforming, so he could get a better look at Draco, but then thought it best to remain hidden.  The second boy arrived in the same way he had before.

"Draco, I've missed you.  Have you missed me?"

Sirius ground his teeth together.  Something about that boy's voice made his stomach knot.

"Don't be a dick, Potter.  Of course I missed you."

"Oh, we're back to surnames, Malfoy?"

"Of course, Harry.  Let's just be civil, we don't have much time together.  How long before the weasels notice you're missing?"

"Mrs. Weasley is at the market, and the others are lousing about the woods.  A few hours maybe."

"Good, let's go to the city then."

The voices of the two boys trailed off.  Sirius remained frozen. Potter.  Harry.  Weasleys.  Draco.  Like the words of ones birth language repeated on unpracticed ears, the meaning of these phrases washed over Sirius slowly.  Harry.  His godson.  Draco.  Malfoy.  Harry had mentioned him before, the Slytherin who he hated, or supposedly hated.  Son of Lucius, son of a Death Eater.  Sirius realized he had not been in contact with Harry for months.  Things had obviously changed.

The wind picked up and Sirius drew his arms across his chest.  He shut his eyes and tried to reconcile the Draco he knew in Sion with the boy Harry had told him about.  It was impossible, he found.  The two did not intersect.  There was no other Draco than the pale blond child that ate apples each morning and smoked slim cigarettes in the afternoon.  There was no other Draco, this Draco of Harry's was just an illusion.

While his eyes were closed, a vision passed – blurred his mind – pale oranges and deep reds on the back of his eyelids. It was a festival, a feast, and Sirius was eating great slabs of pork, his fingers glistening with oil from the fat, leaking precariously down his wrists and arms in tiny streams.  There was a beat, deep and tribal, and people were dancing, naked and chanting, and glistening with sweat and oil.  In the center of it all was Draco, shimmering and full of light.  Sirius wanted to push through the hoard and praise him, prostrate at his feet and dance with him, for him.  But he couldn't move, caught in the hedonistic gyrations of the crowd as it moved to one pulse.  Draco's pulse.

The sick feeling cut into his skin like razor blades, like a cool knife driving into his gut.  He shivered in time with the music, his ears coated with a dull hum.  He could feel his eyes glaze over.  He didn't know where Harry was in all this.

Sirius' eyes blinked open.

He stood and began making his way towards the city.

_"And, so often as before, he arose to follow him"_

Sirius found himself on the bench at the plaza.  He had a small brown bag with a golden apple he had purchased from the vendor in the thick black coat and shady eyes.  Across the way, Draco and Harry were holding hands and smiling.  It was, Sirius imagined, the smile Draco had given him at the castle. 

No, it wasn't.  Sirius was fooling himself.  

Harry's voice was rising, his eyes clouded in anger.  The lovers were quarreling.  Sirius reached into his bag and took the fruit out, piercing its skin with a wet pop.  

Draco had walked a few paces away from Harry, in disgust.  Sirius couldn't hear what his godson was saying; he was lost in Draco's form.  He stood with shoulders shrugged down, feet drawn together, with his head lolled over his right shoulder, staring back at Sirius.  

The world opened up behind him, a cascading sea of gold and green, and Sirius felt the throb of poison in his throat.  Blackness was engulfing him, as Sirius as his dog-self was creeping towards the garden of Hesperides, over the boundaries of time and space and reality.  He couldn't almost reach out, grasp at Draco and follow him across the River Styx, the river of Time, into the Garden to the large apple tree.  It was waiting for him there, when Sirius felt the sting of death.

It took a few moments for the people of the plaza to notice the sandy-haired man keeled over by the playground.  On instincts of the requisite hero, Harry came running, with Draco close in tow.  When they reached the crumpled body, the effects of the mortal Polyjuice potion were already wearing off, and the raven-haired Sirius shocked them both.  Harry gasped.  The golden apple lay at Sirius' side. Draco gently picked it up, and he turned to the fruit vendor.  When he looked in the man's eyes her recognized him immediately; he worked for Draco's father.  And in an instant the vendor was gone, and Draco put his arm across Harry's shoulders to comfort him.

_A/N: The above story is based on Death in Venice, a German romantic work by Thomas Mann.  If you slash, you should read it. All italicized quotes are also from said work. Any and all feedback is welcome._


End file.
